


Every Year, Every Christmas

by nakala



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie gets sloppy drunk, Character Death, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Ichabbie slowburn, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:38:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakala/pseuds/nakala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From that day, small smiles became lingering touches, and furtive glances turned into heated gazes. He'd brush her hair from her face just barely grazing her soft skin. He always stood much closer to her than needed and his hand found the small of her back in guidance more than a time or two. AU Ichabbie Christmas Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Year, Every Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but my ideas. Title from Luthor Vandross's Every Year Every Christmas.

They'd spent the first two Christmases separate.

The first Christmas he was reeling from the news that he was going to hand deliver his partner in fighting crime and – for all intents and purposes – the most important person in his life to Moloch. On the surface, he seemed almost okay, but she knew better and knew he needed his time to process. So, she left him to his moping and research. She'd never know how plagued he was to hear what the demon had said to him. The words shook him to his core. He couldn't fathom doing such a heinous act. He and the lieutenant were bound by duty and something obscure that cinched them together despite their differences. An idiot he was not, therefore, it didn't take him long to surmise that Moloch's message had everything to do with his beloved. The quickness with which he solved the puzzle boiled down to the only reason he would ever consider such a thing. A soul for a soul. He would only _consider_ offering Miss Mills to the infernal creature for nothing less than having his Katrina returned to him.

He was beholden for her lack of intrusion during the holiday season; for he dare not reveal his private elation that there was a way that he could be reunited with his wife. He would have been remise to deny himself those selfish moments of joy because in the light of day he knew he would, under no circumstances, trade the second witness for the one he loved. It was not in the fates. They could only defeat Moloch and stave off the apocalypse together. As they would, together.

However firmly he believed he wasn't to deliver one woman for the other, it did not absolve him of his torture. Although Ichabod Crane was extremely tenacious, he wasn't so brawny that he was untouchable. The eighteenth century time traveler remained barricaded in the cabin he'd come to call home for days mourning the imminent loss of his wife. He allowed himself to shed tears he'd never thought he would have to. He could lose the only woman he'd ever loved without ever getting the chance to shower her in a fraction of the love he felt for her. If he didn't find another way to rescue Katrina from purgatory, she would remain in Moloch's control for all eternity. Once he'd pitched a fit, sulked, and all out lost his mind - enough to allow the demons out - he pulled himself together and dug through everything that Corbin had left at the cabin as well as what he, Abbie, and Jenny had illegally stowed there for when they didn't want to be hunkered in the archives.

His efforts were fruitless.

Abbie, herself, needed to escape from the craziness of it all. She spent her Christmas downing a nice, expensive bottle of champagne and cooking a dinner that could compete in any food competition. She needed the release. Cooking did that for her. It was cathartic. Though she would be ashamed to admit it, Abbie was glad her sister was MIA for the holidays. There was enough on her plate without having to put up with Jenny's massive attitude. Sure, they had come a long way since being children, even since she was finally released indefinitely from the mental facility, but they still had their moments. Abbie didn't have time for those moments after what Crane told her after his meeting with the resident harbinger of the apocalypse.

She didn't want to believe that Crane _could_ fulfill Moloch's prophesy. He was, if not anything, loyal to a cause he believed in. There was no doubt in her mind that the man who happened into her life was devoted to saving the world he'd been thrust into. However, Grace Abigail Mills was not accepted to the FBI Academy because of her gorgeous face and hourglass figure; the small town officer was quite the problem solver. That's why she knew if Crane was as scared as he was it was because he believed what had been foretold. So did she.

It was no secret to her that Crane loved his mysterious, riddled Katrina with his being. This alone gave Abbie pause. In a moment of weakness, she could be shoved into the hands of the demon that had wanted her since she was little. Love was a powerful drug, and although Abbie had loved, she had never loved with the vigor that Crane displayed. She could say irrefutably that she wouldn't even _consider_ sacrificing the other witness for her own flesh and blood. That's how committed she was to saving the world. But then again, she wasn't in love and faced with the possibility of being reconnected to a love she was separated from by time and space. Faced with those circumstances, who's to say. But she didn't want to dwell on becoming a sacrificial lamb.

She didn't; she called Luke.

The second Christmas was the last time Ichabod would see his beloved Katrina. Over the course of the year, she beckoned him regularly. Often, just fleeting moments between two lovers, other times rendezvous where he had what seemed like only seconds to digest the cryptic information she imparted to him. He cherished the moments when it was just them exempt of ulterior motives; yet, he wasn't foolish enough to despise the instances where she was of vast assistance against some demon, ghoul, or horseman Moloch had sent forth to bring his new world to an end.

He should have known something was amiss. The Revolutionary War double agent should have seen it coming from two miles away. Katrina had kept things from him in his life with her as well as in his second life as a witness. He should have been more vigilant. She was adept at deceiving him, something he could never reconcile in his mind and heart; yet, it did nothing to hamper his feelings for her. Against the wishes of his inner soldier, Ichabod stopped looking deeper. He set his skepticism free and took anything that flowed from Katrina's delicate lips for granted.

She was more forthcoming with information, and she never gave him any indication that he should abandon his search for a way to set her free. Quite the contrary, she behaved as if they had not a care in the world. That, in time, all things would work themselves out. In fact, she gave him hope. She spoke of great love and happiness. Katrina regaled him with tales of his future, of thwarting the apocalypse and living to tell the tale. He pictured it all with her by his side, in his arms. They could navigate this strange land together 'til death do they part. For real this time. It wasn't until his second Christmas that she dashed all his hopes.

"Look no more, my valiant husband, my love."

No explanation was necessary. The regret and sorrow in her eyes spoke more than any words he might have heard. He had no future. Not without her. Yet, his stubborn wife wouldn't accept _his_ defeat. She demanded he live his life. He was given a second chance for a reason.

"All is not lost, Ichabod. You have more love, yet, to give. Do not shut your bowels of compassion. Your future still remains bright, even if I am not there."

"You cannot mean – NO – I do not accept this." The first time he'd ever raised his voice to the woman he'd given his heart to was the last time he would ever be in her presence again. Katrina Crane gave him one last lingering kiss and told him to trust her. He'd never doubted her before, and despite his misgivings, he wouldn't start now.

She wouldn't lie to him.

Unlike the previous Christmas, Abbie was alone and mourning. Her first Christmas as a witness, she'd indulged in a little too much libation and much too much Luke. It was a risky game of hearts but she was exhausted with the fight and tired of being alone when she didn't have to be. One time, it was only supposed to be the one time. She gave herself Christmas night and the morning after, but she made sure her ex understood that she really just needed to forget her troubles for the night and the next day they never happened. Luke agreed, she knew he would, but what she didn't expect was the vehement disagreement that raged within her.

Abbie had loved Luke as best she could, but it wasn't enough, not in comparison. So, when she awoke to her hand dialing his number again on New Year's Eve, she was appalled, bewildered that it was she and not he breeching their verbal contract. More puzzling to the hardened woman, were the emotions sneaking up on her. Had it just been physical, she might have kept her head, but seeing as Luke couldn't keep his mouth shut and often coaxed her into unburdening herself, they kind of fell into each other. It was comfortable, she felt comfortable with Luke, safe because she let herself be. Their first time as a couple, he was just someone to keep her company; she wasn't all in. But something about that Christmas changed things between them and within her. She didn't want to lose her life never having loved and received the love that was given to her, if what Crane said was true losing her life was inevitable. So she gave into Luke's incessant insistence. Surreptitious as it may have been, it happened and she wouldn't have changed a thing. Abbie surrendered to love and accepted love.

Three months before the second Christmas Detective Luke Morales was ripped from her life by one of Moloch's minions. She'd kept him from the darkness in her life, told him only enough that he didn't doubt her love. To her surprise, it worked; they worked, and for the first time in her life, she was truly happy. The young officer could smile honestly from lip to eye. Luke did that for her when Crane was pitching fits and disappearing to his happy place with Katrina. It made her happy that after all the fighting and near death experiences, she had someone to go home to. Selfishly, she let him get too close to her and her destined mission.

"Did I get him?" He lay in her arms bloody, bruised, and dying.

"Yeah, baby, you got him." He didn't; Crane did, but she wouldn't allow her fiancé to die thinking he had failed her. He'd given his life to preserve hers, the least she could do was gift him with peace of mind before he departed.

"Abs, I'm sorry." She didn't understand, didn't want to understand. She tried to quiet him, to get him to save his energy, but he was adamant. "I'm sorry I'm leaving you."

She was sorry too and scared. She was going to be alone again. She was losing the only bright spot in her dreary war-torn existence. Who would keep the nightmare monsters at bay? Who would be the warmth that kept her alive and striving?

"Luke, baby, I love you more than I ever told you." More than any word or action could describe. She loved him, and wished to God that she'd said it more. He deserved more.

He winked at her with a weary smile on his face then uttered his last words to her. "I know, babe, but I love you more." Before he faded into the afterlife, Abbie pressed her lips to his baptizing him with her tears.

Crane had to drag her away from his corpse as she kicked and screamed of revenge with a murderous wrath.

Once the fury subsided, she was overcome with misery. Debilitating misery that she had to suppress for the greater good. To save lives. She wasn't afforded a break to mourn her beloved until the eve of the second Christmas. Irving and Jenny begged her to spend the holidays with them, but she refused. Even Crane popped outside his bubble and opened his door but it was a formality Abbie didn't want or appreciate. He, of all people, should have known she didn't need their coddling. She needed to be alone and she knew he had other plans. If anyone understood Crane's precarious situation with his wife, it was her. She wouldn't begrudge her fellow witness his time, no matter how counterproductive it was, with his wife. Had the fates or God given her the chance, she would forsake all to be with her deceased fiancé. Fate was never so kind to her. All Abbie had was a tombstone and an engagement ring. That Christmas morning she talked to a cement block with Luke Morales' name engraved on it. Not him. Never him again. And when night fell, she lamented her lost love.

On New Year's Eve She and Crane grieved their lost loves together.

The third Christmas neither Ichabod nor Abbie was alone.

The year had been treacherous. Both embattled mourners had taken hit after hit. Parrish was overtaken by the darkness lurking within him; Crane had to kill him with his bare hands. Moloch's forces had strengthened considerably, which forced Crane and the lieutenant to search for those who could aid in their efforts. They were awarded a witch who'd known Katrina and a particularly inquisitive professor of anthropology. This gave them some breathing room, but only so little.

Even with Captain Irving, Jenny, the witch, and professor, Crane and Abbie were stretched thin. Many nights were spent burning the midnight oil in search for some way to defeat Moloch or any number of sycophants sent their way. Unfortunately, there were the times when they couldn't recover the information needed which volleyed them onto the losing side of the battle with either he or the lieutenant wrestling their own deaths. It was in these times that they grew closer. They began to cling to each other under the auspices that they were going to be left alone in the fight. So they would beg, barter, and pray that the injured would be saved for fear of the damage a loss would do to their hearts. They could not lose each other. In all truthfulness, they were all they had.

Jenny and Irving had moved beyond dating and were living together. They had each other. They had someone to comfort them when saving the world became too hard. They had love and happiness in the midst of peril. Even the witch and professor found love in the middle of disaster. It was she and Crane who were left on the outskirts of life. After losing the only love they'd ever known – wanted to know – Crane and Abbie were lost, sinking under the deluge of evils and hurt. They'd virtually given up any hope of living anything resembling life, and Jenny dare not ask her sister to partake in something as menial as a movie with a friend. Abbie didn't have friends; she couldn't have friends. Friends could get caught in the cross fires of her life. She had Crane, who was her fellow witness. She didn't have to hide the side of her that had claimed her life and her love from him. Crane was privy to the hurt and anguish all too prevalent in their young lives.

In the beginning, that was all they shared. Their common ground was the heartache and despair that tainted everything. After defeating a foe or long days in the archives, they'd booze it up succumbing to the full effects of the truth serum. Under the influence, they would disclose their deepest, darkest secrets and empty their hearts to one another. It was during these confessionals that Abbie and Crane began to see one another as more than just a witness or a necessity but someone they could lean on. They weren't so different despite the gaps in their time periods, genders, and the colors of their skin. They'd both loved and lost and been dropped into something neither of them asked for or were prepared for. Eventually, the booze transformed into walks to visit the cemetery, dinner at the all night diner, coffee at her apartment. Amidst their hesitance and stubborn natures, the walls barricading their fragile hearts began to crumble.

As he opened up to Abbie, Crane exorcised himself of his anger toward his wife for leaving him without warning. Once rid of his anger, the widower carried with him the pieces of his heart. He'd loved that woman from the moment he'd laid eyes on her, and against better judgment and loyalty, he took her as his. Even with all the lies and deception, he would have chosen her each and every time. The only regret he could own was that they were stolen away from each other prematurely. There were too many years and a son between them that he could never reclaim all of which left Crane feeling empty and robbed. However, in the dimly lit room among the archives, the void began to shrink and the pain seemed to lessen, just as he'd noticed her easy smile returning.

Abbie didn't know how long she was supposed to mourn, not that she had had much time to actually do just that. When her grandmother lost her grandfather, it seemed the old lady grieved until the day she died; she didn't want to be that person, but she also didn't see how she could escape that fate. The second New Year's Eve was the last time she'd shed any tears over her fiancé – whisked away on a life threatening demon tour. Though she didn't show it, she could feel it ruining her from within. The first time she brought out the hard, mind numbing liquor was when she'd had to put a bullet in Crane's deranged son's head. She didn't let go of the pressure bearing down on her that night, but she argued with Crane while he accused her of being reckless and selfish. They could have saved his son. They couldn't. But Crane needed to release the tension and frustration he kept contained most of the time and Abbie just needed to yell. She needed to feel something. Indignation was better than nothing. It wasn't until the anniversary of Luke's proposal and the witch's announcement that she was pregnant that she'd gotten wasted at the archives and lost it. She'd wept under the table bundled in the fetal position unconcerned with how weak she looked in front of Crane who'd joined her on the floor. He didn't try to placate her or get her to calm down he was just there for her as she'd been for him many times in their past. That was the last night she or Crane drowned their sorrows in alcohol and the beginning of Abbie's journey to making peace with Luke's death.

Abbie had been unattainable the entire day; no one could manage to wrangle her, not even the witch who Abbie was terribly fond of. Crane had called her, which should have yielded results; in the three years he'd known her she had always answered his call. The only exception had been on the anniversary of the death of Luke Morales. She wasn't at her home when he'd visited nor was she at the cemetery earlier that morning. He had no idea where she could have been for the better part of the day; so, he'd waited hoping she would contact him. Ichabod was worried about her. The death of her fiancé had ridden her back the whole year without letting up, and he feared that during a time as sensitive as this she would do something rash. It wouldn't have been the first time. He milled about his cabin waiting for her call, but none came. When his curiosity and fret had the better of him, he decided to try the cemetery again. One year down to the hour, he knew this time he would find her there.

Abbie crouched in front of the headstone she had bought. As she'd done at least once a month since the previous Christmas, she placed flowers in the vase and talked to her fiancé. This would be the last time she visited him. She couldn't continue living her life in the past no matter how much she wanted to. Abbie Mills knew how awful perpetual grief could wreak havoc on a person, and she couldn't go on doing this to herself. Her future was bleary and bleak at best, but she couldn't carry this hurt with her. So, this visit was an exercise in letting it all go. She had to let him go. As guilty as she felt, Abbie apologized profusely and promised she'd return if she made it to the other side of the pending apocalypse. Before she stood to leave, she touched her fingers to her lips and placed it over the heart at the top of the tombstone. Standing, she felt a warm breeze tousle her hair, and somehow she knew it was Luke. And as crazy as it sounded she just knew he was offering her assurance. With the knowledge of her former lover's support, Abbie smiled for the first time, in what felt like centuries.

She hadn't heard him come up, but standing a few feet away Ichabod was the first to witness Abbie's first genuine smile since she'd watched her love die in her arms. Immediately, the lovely adornment fell from her face and tears began to pour from her eyes. She was steady on her feet, but Crane wasn't sure how long that would last. In a couple of strides, he was gathering her in his arms surrounding her in his oaky musk. He murmured soothing words into her hair as he rubbed her back, which made her cry harder. Then out of nowhere, her weeping turned into laughter confusing her consoler.

"Luke was the worst at trying to make me feel better." Ichabod stepped from her to look into her face keeping his hands at her waist. Surely, she was having a mental break.

"Abbie, are you well?" After seeing each other at their lowest and drunkest, he'd abandoned the formality of addressing her with any particular title, aside from the lone _Leftenant_.

She swiped at the tears obscuring her vision, and smiled brightly at her fellow witness. "Yeah, Crane. I'm _well_." She was even able to insert some of her trademark sarcasm. The young woman was back. After living under the shadow of death for so long, she was finally feeling the slightest inception of freedom. There with Crane, the other witness, her friend, Abbie could feel life seeping back into her bones as well as his hands still on her person; she was finding reasons to smile again.

From that day, small smiles became lingering touches, and furtive glances turned into heated gazes. Things between the two progressed gradually, creeping up on them silently. Late nights in the archives would end with the two talking well after dawn. Abbie hardly noticed the once reserved Ichabod shift toward tactility. He'd brush her hair from her face just barely grazing her soft skin. He always stood much closer to her than needed and his hand found the small of her back in guidance more than a time or two. Neither paid any mind to the fact the their victories often ended with her wrapped in Crane's arms or that she'd began to greet him with a hug each and every time. They wouldn't acknowledge their mutual attraction until the third Christmas.

Everyone had left after dinner, except for Crane. He'd hung around at Abbie's behest. She didn't want to be alone; she didn't say those words but Crane knew. They'd cleared the dishes and tidied the house, full of energy they had no idea from where or how to dispel. As they cleaned, they buzzed about each other synchronously tossing each other meaningful glances and fleeting touches. When they were finished, they settled on Abbie's old couch in front of the sparkling Christmas tree sitting close enough to touch. The electricity firing between them was tangible. Crane's hand itched to pull Abbie into his side, and Abbie fidgeted nervously wanting nothing more than to be in the arms of the man she – in this moment – realized she'd started falling in love with more than three months prior.

Resolved to rid the room of the building tension, Lieutenant Abbie Mills straightened her back and turned to face Crane ready to nip this thing in the bud. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't wait for life to happen; it was too short. However, when her chocolate eyes met his blue crystalline eyes, the words caught in her throat. Her breathing quickened causing her lips to part to take in more air and her heart danced in her chest to a classical allegro, the sound pounding in her ears.

Crane saw the darkness of her pupils overtake the warm brown of her eyes that he'd grown to love. His heart stopped. He couldn't breathe. His eyes darted from her eyes, to her parted lips to her collarbone, back to her lips, then back to her penetrating gaze. He'd waited for this moment since that night she'd stood toe-to-toe with him giving as good as she got when he unjustly accused her of the coldblooded murder of his son. The fire he saw behind the hurt and torment stirred something within him, revealed something to him about her. Instinctively, Crane cupped the side of Abbie's face his fingers buried in the hair behind her ear, his thumb gently caressing her smooth cheek.

At the feel of his cool hand on her flaming skin, Abbie's eyelids fell over her eyes as she leaned into the feel of him. Caught off guard by the feel of his thumb ghosting over her bottom lip, her breathing hitched and her eyes flew open to catch him staring at her intently with darkened eyes.

"Abbie…" Her name floated from his lips on a labored exhale.

The moment the word drifted into her ear, any inhibition she'd harbored evaporated and she crashed her thick, supple lips to his thin soft ones. She kissed him fervently as her hands found their way around his neck. Crane pulled her closer with one hand while grabbing the back of her head angling it so that he could deepen the kiss with the other. The warmth that spread through him when he tasted the spicy cinnamon that was Abbie evoked a deep growl from his throat startling himself and eliciting a smile from the love drunk and flattered Abbie.

"I'm sorry." He moved to separate from Abbie but she held him firmly by the face making him look her in the eyes.

"It's okay, Crane."

"No…I have-" Ichabod wasn't able to finish his self-deprecation because the lieutenant kissed him again this time just a soft peck.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, and you haven't overstepped or whatever it is you think you've done in that eighteenth century brain of yours." She spoke only centimeters away from his lips gazing into his eyes. "If anything, Crane, you've just given me a major ego boost." She cocked her eyebrow at him. "Got it?"

Ichabod smiled licking his lips. He might not have been a twenty-first century man, but he was a quick learner. This time instead of allowing Miss Mills to take the lead, Crane eased his lips onto hers tenderly kneading the soft flesh growing more feverish as he continued.

Pulling away only far enough to breathe, Abbie looked up at the man she loved and whispered, "Merry Christmas, Ichabod Crane."

"Merry Christmas, Abigail Mills." Crane muttered leaning in to capture the lips of the woman he loved once again.


End file.
